


Mirror, mirror, what the absolute fuck

by datonegayglader (orphan_account)



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Claudia Stilinski was magical-ish, Demon mirror, Different Dimensions, Dimensional Travel, I didn't know where I was going with this, I don't even have a specific time frame for this lol, M/M, Mention of actors as other people, Mirror Worlds - Freeform, PTSD, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Work Up For Adoption, inspired by a book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:41:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/datonegayglader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Stiles starts dreaming about Stiles in another universe and there's some crazy demon mirror starting to blend the worlds together (But I gave up on this story because ??? I dunno. It's up for adoption. Take it pls lol).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, mirror, what the absolute fuck

**Author's Note:**

> I made this a year ago and can't find any motivation to continue it. At this certain time in my life I really loved the idea of different worlds and what would happen if Stiles met Stiles.
> 
> Obviously I didn't reach that point in here. Maybe you can.
> 
> This was inspired by by a book that I can't even remember. 
> 
> I hope this finds a new owner.

__The first time it happened Stiles was a little over five years old. He isn't really sure as momma and daddy have been too busy to throw him a birthday party and there isn't a calendar in the house to know the date. But it's cold outside and the leaves on the trees in the surrounding forest are starting to turn yellow and red. He spends most of the day in his room by himself, playing with Tyler, who's his bestest friend in the whole wide world. Tyler's a beige looking wolf with a black seam threaded mouth. From years of playing with him the strings have come undone, fraying at edges. He's making Tyler eat marshmallows from a petri dish that he took, without permission, from the kitchen counter. It's getting a little boring making Tyler scarf down marshmallows when Stiles's brain catches onto a thought bouncing around on the inside of his skull.

 

“Tyler,” he gasped, chubby hands clutching onto the sticky, matted fake fur on Tyler's wolf body. “We can read one of momma's books for story time. It'll be really fun. C'mon!”

 

He sneaks out into the hallway quietly, making sure to be extra careful as he hears the tip-tip-tippity-tap of momma's keyboard coming from the living room. Even though she has a study daddy put together for her she likes to work in the living room, curling up by the window that overlooks their front yard. Stiles pushes the door of his momma's study open and slips in with Tyler pressed against his body for protection. See...he really isn't allowed in momma's study. Ever.

 

( “It's private buddy.” Daddy says as he crouches on one knee to wipe away three year old Stiles's snot and tears. “Grown ups have things just for themselves too. Kinda like how Tyler's just for you.”

 

Stiles hiccuped, his breath stuttering. “Alright, daddy. I won't do it again.”

 

Daddy's face lights up with a big, sparkling smile as he hefty Stiles up into the air and sets him on his hip. “How about some ice cream,hm?” )

 

It's dark save for a single lamp coming from momma's desk. Admittedly he had came for one of his momma’s thick heavy novels, but his family’s heirloom beckons him from across the room. The Mirror sits in the corner of the room, covered up by a thick heavy blanket that he knows once belonged to Grandma Wiła. It's full of crackling electricity that Stiles is too young to understand why yet. The blankets thrums with energy, as if warning him like his babysitter on the weekends. Do not touch, Stiles.

 

Only Stiles likes to be naughty sometimes. Like sometimes when he blames it on Tyler that he had pee-peed at nap time instead of him.

 

He steps across the carpet until he's closer and closer until he can feel Grandma Wiła's blanket sparking against his face. Stiles pulls a corner of the soft blanket in his hand and tugs, sending the blanket spiraling onto the carpet. The Mirror is a scary thing, made of ivory bones and dark skeleton hands on either side, as if it was a woman caressing her child swollen middle. It's a little taller than himself. Probably standing to daddy's height. The Mirror's surface is full of foggy white stuff that pulses inside and swirling smoke figures of the characters inside momma's books. He can see himself as an older boy, with glasses and pretty girl by his side. He can see Tyler as handsome regal alpha wolf on a snow covered mountaintop, digging into the soft flesh of a dying deer's side.

 

The Mirror gives a final throb before all matter deep inside stops. Thick, cloying strands of white reach out, curving this way and that before it touches Stiles's cheek and Tyler's button nose. It latches on quick as Stiles has seen done before to Momma and bites into him with sharp needle teeth. The strands turn a dark crimson and ebbs away at the stuff inside Stiles. He closes his eyes and exhales, breathing in deeply as he tries to imagine what he wants.

 

A friend for Tyler. A baby wolf with green eyes like spring leaves and fur like midnight.

 

When he opens his eyes The Mirror ripples, changes and distorts as it tries to bring forth Stiles's request. It spits out a tiny shaking wolf cub no bigger than daddy's cat Wicker. Stiles is so happy with his new playmate he fails to hear the soft steps of momma coming down the hall and the creaking of momma's study door being opened.

 

 

“What are you—

 

 

 

 

 

“Doing?”

 

Stiles head jerks up, effectively hurting his neck as he tries to find the source of the voice that woke him up. His brain finally catches up to speed. He was in Coach's health class, sitting behind Scott taking a test when he had fallen asleep.

 

Asleep? When he had done that? He tries to remember what he had done before falling asleep. He was half-way through the test packet when...when. What had happened next? He can't remember. It sends a tiny flare of panic coursing through him before realizing it was only a dream. A harmless, non-nogitsune controlled dream. He had not woken up in another place. He was here at school. He had just forgotten when he fell asleep. Don't most people do that? Forget? That's normal, right?

 

“I'm sorry?” Stiles asks, fingers combing over the mess that is his hair. His fingers were shaking from the dream, so much that they only managed to fumble across his scalp as if they were numbed with cold.

 

“I said, what are you doing? This is a test, Bilinski. Not nap time." Coach didn't look angry however, just irritated and worried.

 

“Yes, sir.” Stiles says in reply, because honestly what can he say without sounding like an insane person? This was weird, even more so than the being possessed by a thousand year old Japanese demon that was his life not even three months ago. Stiles returned to the test, ignoring Scott's heavy gaze on the back of his neck, watching for any signs of some kind of demonic relapse.

 

After the test and class Scott corners him in the hallway just outside the door, his eyes flickering with worry. “Hey,” Scott greets a bit stiffly. He's body is rigid with awkwardness. Just from the look at his face Stiles can tell the other is unsure on what to say and how to put it. Stiles is just grateful that Scott decides to take my-friend-may-be-sick route, rather than holy-shit-is-this-something-supernatural? route.

 

“You feeling okay?”

 

Stiles screws up a smile onto his face and shrugs his shoulders, knowing Scott would've been able to hear his lie right away. Better to leave it vague as he possibly could. He just got back to being normal. No way in hell was he being poked and prodded and checked for any type of supernatural ailment of the month. Scott smiles back, dimples forming at the outer corners of his mouth. His friend pulls him close into a one armed hug and sets them both off for their next class, unaware of the revolving expressions appearing on Stiles's face.

 

When Scott had grabbed him it was like he had been on a roller coaster, or something. His head inside lurched forward, moving and rolling like angry waves at sea. His stomach churned and for a brief moment Stiles thought he was going to puke all over Scott in the middle of the hallway. But then it subsided. Gone as quickly as it had came. The rest of the day went well and Stiles decided that maybe the dream was just a really weird dream. Maybe his subconscious was telling him to not watch any more horror movies. Or maybe it was telling him to go on a vacation. Who knows? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pack is crammed into Stiles's kitchen and people — werewolf people Stiles should clarify — are clambering for seconds and thirds of his hashbrown casserole. Not even his dad's ravenous, greasy appetite can even compare to that of four hungry teenage boys. Liam flushes hotly when Stiles gives him a pointed stare at the grease stains all down the length of his white t-shirt. Scott and rest of them snicker and pile their plates high with other goodies — chips, sandwiches, cookies and mini-pies that Stiles hid in the very back of the cupboard from his father. Normally, he wouldn't even give out his favorite treats to anyone, excluding Scott of course, but he had felt so down the past week. It felt nice for there to be noise at his home, for warmth to be radiating from the kitchen stove as he cooked to make his family happy. It does feel nice, having everyone here.

 

But it's not enough. Some deeper, darker part of his brain hisses. Because of that dream. That weird fucking dream.

 

It was true. He had been more than bothered by it. He was starting to think it was real and that maybe it was some old forgotten memory. But he had never lived in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere and when he had searched through old albums of when he was toddler or a little bit older, there had been no Tyler the beige wolf. Nothing. Nada. Should've been the end of the story. Only it wasn't. It kept him up at night, bouncing around in his head and replaying over and over and over until he found himself staying awake through the majority of the night. He wanted to know what happened to little Stiles. 

 

“You gonna eat that?” Scott's voice, soft and pleading broke through the trance Stiles had slipped into. His puppy brown eyes bore into his lighter amber brown ones, begging for that reminder of food. Stiles shook his head and laughed, pushing over the paper plate without a word. And just as Scott's hand reached out for it everything everywhere started to gray.

 

He blinked. Several times, thinking it was some kind of flashback from the leftover horror of the Nogitsune but everything whited out of existence, clean and empty like a canvas. Dark dots appeared and grew bigger by each passing second. He could also hear voices, faint but quickly growing louder until he swears he hears his mother whisper directly into his ear.. “Sti—

 

 

 

 

 

“Les.” 

 

Momma stood in the doorway, her eyes — identical to his own — are wide and fearful. Stiles cowered in the middle of the study, hand gripping tight into soft fur of the wolf pup's. Oh no. Momma is gonna be so mad! Only his momma doesn't look mad. She makes a choked noise and clasps a trembling hand over her mouth, stifling whatever screams that's trying to come through. She bounds across the room in three easy steps and yanks him up by his left arm. Stiles releases a tiny cry of pain and waits for his behind to be swatted at. But instead momma pulls him out into the hallway, closes the study door and locks it shut with the key necklaces that hangs around momma's throat. She lifts him him up and is ready to spring away when Stiles discovers his new friend is missing.

 

“Momma,” he tells her as she walks away in stiff movements. “We left Tyler's friend in there.”

 

As if the pup know's what Stiles is saying, scratching noises sound from along the bottom of the door. Followed by pitiful whimpers of loneliness. His momma gets a frightened look on her face and looks at Stiles for the first time since she took him out the study. 

 

“Stiles? What were you doing in there? You know the rules, only mommy and daddy can go in there.”

 

Momma doesn't sound mad. Her voice sounds tight, like she can barely speak. Her eyes are shiny, big and wide. Her fingernails bite into the soft flesh of Stiles's arm and leave red, tingling crescent moons there. She jerks him forward with an urgency she can't exactly express and watches him, searching his face. But for what is unknown. “Don't ever touch The Mirror again. When you take you must give something in return.”

 

Stiles scrunched up his face like how daddy does when he encounters a particularly hard puzzle in his Sudoku book. That didn't seem fair. It's not like The Mirror told him. 

 

“Promise me you won't do it again. Okay?”

 

“Okay.” He promises her, the incident forgotten not even three hours later. The next day when he sneaks into momma's study again The Mirror is gone and in it's place is a shiny mahogany wardrobe.

 

 

 

 

“Stiles?”

 

He is brain is back on, slow but back where he's supposed to be. Scott's looking at him with that familiar expression of worry and Kira mirrors it, as well does the betas. “You with me?”

 

“Sorry,” Stiles says automatically because he really does feel sorry. “I just don't feel all that great.” Another vague answer with the slightest truth. He didn't feel great. He felt awful. It had been so long since he had seen his mother and everything about the dream had felt so real. It had caught him off guard and made him feel guilty. He sometimes forget what she looked like and has to go through their family's photo albums until her features are ingrained on the inside of his eyelids. But the dream. It was her and nothing was out of place. Every beauty mark was exactly where it was supposed to be. Her hair the same long length, shiny and her bangs pinned to the side with her favorite tortoise shell clip. His mother's lips so much like his own had moved flawlessly despite her hindering accent.

 

“Ugh,” Liam cries, sticking his tongue out. He scoots farther away down the table. “Don't get me sick!”

 

“Liam, you can't get sick anymore. You're a werewolf, remember?” Lydia reminds him with her trademark you're-a-dumbass eye roll. But she tugs nervously at the end of her fishtail braid, her top teeth worrying into her bottom lip. Stiles smiles and shakes his head and allows the others to pull him back into the fray of normal conversation. The dream once more forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

The next time Stiles sees The Mirror is in the middle of the summer of his 16th year, in the sweltering heat of their attic. They're going through old stuff of grandma Wiła's to sell and what to keep. Money's been tight since mom doesn't write anymore. She doesn't do much at all but sit there and stare out the living room window, chattering about different Nows and Passages. Whatever that means. She claims to be waiting for something but what is never revealed to him or his dad. Now that Stiles is older he can visit the town four miles south of his home and he hears the cruel whispers people have to say about his mom.

 

“Poor thing's been traumatized…” the shopkeeper of the Ma and Pop's store says softly.

 

“Not surprising,” the bitter old churchwomen down Magnolia Street hisses through her teeth. “What do you expect from writing so much…darkness?”

 

His mother had been known for her brand of horror in her works and as expected, not a whole lot of religious fans liked it. They felt intimidated and offended by mom's religious portrayal. Stiles really doesn't care what they have to say about his mother's opinions on things because after all they are nothing but opinions. But he draws the line at them saying it was her fault that she became this way. That she deserved it. But at times when he's having a very bad day and wonders why he can't go to school like a normal kid or have friends, he agrees with them. 

 

Why couldn't his dad just put her away in a home? Obliviously what they were doing wasn't helping anyone. 

 

Love, he supposes is why. And money. 

 

Now that mom isn't selling anymore best sellers, the bills have piled up over the years until they accumulated a total of 15,000 smack-a-roos. Though it was a hard decision and dad wasn't likely going to get a raise anytime soon at his job, they would have part with some of grandma W's belongings.

 

And man, did his grandmother bring some goodies with her when she came to America!

 

There's a stack of old photos of a man in a polish military garb. Grandpa "Thomas" Tomazitlaw his brain supplies. There's also an ancient sewing machine that you have to crank to get the needle to move up and down. Mom's old dresses, a few old letters written to and from family members back in Poland. But among the middle of it all is a tall wooden thing, half covered by a dirty old sheet. The top of it leans to the side, something set on top of it. Just as he reaches out to yank away the sheet his father's head pops up from the attic's opening on the floor and he yells.

 

“Don't touch that.”

 

Stiles yanks his hand as if it's been burned on their stove top and takes several steps back, his heart hammering away in his chest. There was only one thing that could've made his father act like this. The Mirror. His dad climbs through the opening and sighs. “I told you to wait for me.”

 

“I got excited,” Stiles tells him. He looks to his dad and holds his father's gaze. “Is that what I think it is?”

 

“Yeah,” Dad answers with a frown. He smooths a hand over his dusty hair, sending it to billow up into the attic's rafters. “It's the mirror.”

 

It's different to how Stiles says it. Dad says it like it's a normal everyday household item even though he knows his father knows it's something much, much more. “I hid it up here after your mother brought that wolf cub into the house and it attacked you.” Stiles does remember that. A small fluffy thing it had been. What had happened to it after? His hand moves up to brush against the faint scars that line his collarbone and feels a twinge of phantom pain. The funny thing is he could’ve sworn that he wasn’t bitten by the tiny wolf cub. But by with something that had mist hands for a mouth. “Your mother thought the mirror was talking to her.”

 

This was new, to him at least. In the past his father claimed there was no more room in his mother's study and that's why it had been moved. Maybe now that he’s older his dad will tell him what really happened.

 

“Do you believe her?” 

 

His dad's face pales and holds a pained expression. “I believe your mother, Claudia, believed it was.”

 

It's not really an answer but Stiles decides not to question it anymore. His dad loved his mother and asking about his mother's…unusual behavior hurt his father. 

 

“What are we going to do with it?” He asks, changing the topic. He wonders if the antique store would take it for a reasonable price, from what Stiles could remember The Mirror was a magnificent piece of work. 

 

“It's staying here,” dad says as he crouched down and shifted through grandma W's things. “It'll make your mother upset if she found it gone.”

 

“Well what if we don't tell her?”

 

“Trust me. She'll know.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles woke up on the couch, the TV still on on and the front door opening as his father came in. The light from the porch flickered on behind his father, making him appear as a tall black shadow, looking an awful lot like the creatures that frequent his dream mother’s books. Stiles can’t help but unleash the terrified cry that rips it way through his throat, demanded to be heard by everything and everyone. “Shit!” His dad shrieks and stumbles inside, his keys fumble from his hands and land with a clatter on the floor. Stiles claws at the front of his shirt as if it will calm his rapidly beating heart. It doesn't and if anything it makes things worse because he's drenched. In piss.

 

His father finally manages to get a hold of himself and feels for the light switch on the wall opposite of their key hook. Lights flood the living room and burn Stiles's eyes. His father comes forward and goes to hug him, only to draw back. His nose wrinkled at the stinging smell of ammonia. “Stiles...Oh buddy, what happened?”

 

His dad gingerly sits on the edge of the couch cushion where it's clean and pulls away the blanket wrapped around Stiles in a wet cocoon..

 

“I — I don't know,” he says with a shaking voice. He's never been more embarrassed at 17 years old. He can't believe he peed in his sleep. On the couch. Which in is in the living room and he has a werewolf with an amazing olfactory senses for a friend. Scott and anyone else would've been able to smell it right away. Stiles crumbled inward like a empty soda can being smashed underneath a shoe, tears streaming down his face as he tries to make sense of it. “I was just sleeping!” His voice came out shrilly, high and desperate.

 

“It was a nightmare about that…thing wasn't it?”

 

Stiles sniffles and tries to remember. No. His dream wasn't a nightmare oddly enough. There had been no pain there. No nogitsune. No geriatric grandpa Argent beating the ever living shit out of him. Just dream Stiles and his dream parents and that goddamn Mirror. But Stiles doesn't want tell his dad that — because at the moment it sound a lot more of a mental problem than their usual supernatural one.

 

Stiles nods his head. His dad pulls him to his feet and directs him into their shared bathroom down the hall. “Don't worry about it. I'll clean it up.”

 

“No! Dad! I can do it!”

 

John hadn't cleaned up after Stiles since he was fucking 13. John waved him on, like it was no big deal. “It'll be okay. Just go shower. No offense but your pee reeks.”

 

 

 

 

When Stiles is finished up in the bathroom, squeaky clean and smelling heavily of axe gel shampoo, strawberries and vanilla, (He had used anything that virtually smelled good to get rid of the stench of acrid pee.) he pads backs into the living room. It smells of bleach and cleaning supplies and the couch cushions are missing from their spot. His dad's a funny sight in rubber yellow gloves, still clad in his uniform. John looks from where he's cleaning and crooks his gloved finger for Stiles to sit down in the recliner. Stiles obeys.

 

“I want you to know I'm not mad or anything,” his father tells him as he strips off his cleaning gloves. “This…can happen a lot whenever someone’s been through a traumatic experience.”

 

Stiles snorts, feeling miserable. “I’ll just have to tell my therapist about this one.”

 

“Or you can talk to your friends?” His dad suggests and already, in Stiles’s mind, the idea is thrown out the window.

 

We already have enough problems, Stiles thinks.

 

“Okay.” He answers, however.

 

His dad gives a small smile and 

 


End file.
